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I was walking through the store the other day, and noticed small children sitting in buggies, riding on backs, being cute and adorable. I realized how much I missed having a little feller to keep me company.
When no’s 1,2 and 3 were tots (yes, all at the same time…#1 was 18 mos old when #2 was born, and #2 was 20 mos old when #3 came along), I was so busy just keeping them from killing themselves and each other that I didn’t have time to enjoy them. I barely remember the first 6 years of their lives. My memories of them are generally associated with photographs and video tape. I honestly can’t remember much else other than being tired all the time and achingly unhappy. The unhappiness turned out to be nuclear strength post partum depression.
#4 arrived 8 years after #3. Knowing the postpartum issue, my psychiatrist and I chose to implement the Keep Rootie Happy plan, involving large quantities of antidepressants and mood levelers. The good news is- it worked. I can remember almost all the very precious moments of #4′s infancy and toddlerhood.
Now I want it again. Not a baby (take a breath Sweet Daddio, tattoos are cheaper than getting tubes untied), but a 3 year old. Someone who can converse relatively intelligently on the merits of bananas and Elmo, someone who loves me absolutely as I am, and treats everytime I walk into the room like a party just exploded. I want someone who will ride in the seat in the buggy and sing “Rubber Duck Rubber duck rubber duck duck rubber duck rubber duck duck rubber duck….” I want someone small and squishy who won’t call me a bitch and tell me to f*ck off when I won’t let him eat the cashews.
I want…a preschooler. Girl or boy, it matters not. I’ll even take fingerprints 2 feet up on the walls, sippy cup lids with no matching sippy cup, and cheerios.
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